Magicians of Gor Read online

  "Larls, larls!" called a fellow. "I win!"

  "Alas," moaned the other. "I have only verr."

  "Larls" would be maximum highs, say, double highs, if two dice were being used, triple highs if three dice were in play, and so on. The chances of obtaining a "larl" with one throw of one die is one in six, of obtaining "larls" with two dice, one in thirty-six, of obtaining "larls" with three dice, one in two hundred and sixteen, and so on. Triple "larls" is a rare throw, obviously. The fellow had double "larls." Other types of throws are "urts," "sleen," "verr," and such. The lowest value on a single die is the "urt." The chances of obtaining, say, three "urts" is very slim, like that of obtaining three "larls" one in two hundred and sixteen. "Verr" is not a bad throw but it was not good enough to beat "larls." If two dice are in play a "verr" and a "larl" would be equivalent on a numerical scale to ten points, or, similarly, if the dice are numbered, as these were, one would simply count points, though, of course, if, say, two sixes were thrown, that would count as "larls."

  A lad danced past, pounding on a tabor.

  I stood there, in the camp, looking about, at the various fires and the folks about them. Mostly, as I have suggested, these folks were of the peasants, but, among them were representatives of many other castes, as well, mostly refugees from Torcadino and its environs, in the west, and from the vicinity of Ar's Station, in the north, folks who had fled before the marches of Cos.

  "Ai!" cried a fellow a few yards away, tumbling off the filled, greased wineskin. He would not win the skin and its contents.

  There was much laughter.

  "Next!" called the owner of the skin. "Next!" As it cost a tarsk bit to try the game I think he had already made more than the cost of the wineskin and its contents.

  I wondered if I could balance on the skin. It is not easy, of course, given the surgent fluid and the slippery surface.

  Another fellow addressed himself to the task, but was on his back in the dirt in an instant. There was more laughter about the skin.

  "An excellent effort," called the owner of the skin, "would you care to try again?"

  "No," said the fellow.

  "We will hold you while you mount," volunteered the owner.

  But the fellow waved good-naturedly and left.

  "A tarsk bit," called the owner. "Only a tarsk bit! Win wine, the finest ka-la-na, a whole skinful, enough to treat your entire village."

  "I will try," said a fellow, determinedly.

  I walked over to the circle to watch.

  The fellow was helped to the surface of the wineskin. But only an Ihn or so later he tumbled off into the dirt. Fellows about slapped their thighs and roared with laughter.

  "Where is my wine?" called one of his friends.

  There was laughter.

  How odd it was, I thought, that these folks, who had so little, and might, were it not for the forces of Ar, such as they were, between Cos and the city, be in mortal jeopardy, should disport themselves so delightedly.

  I watched another fellow being helped to the surface of the skin.

  I supposed it might be safe, now, to return to the tent. Presumably, by now, it would not be a violation of decorum to return to the tent. Indeed, by now, Marcus and Phoebe might be asleep. Marcus usually slept her at his feet, in which case her ankles would be crossed and closely chained, or at his thigh, in which case, she would be on a short neck chain, fastened to his belt. A major advantage of sleeping the girl at your thigh is that you can easily reach her and, by the hair, or the chain, if one is used, pull her to you in the night. These measures, however, if they were intended to be precautions against her escape, were in my opinion unnecessary. Phoebe, as I have suggested, was held to her master by bonds compared to which stout ropes, woven of the strongest, coarsest fibers, and chains or iron, obdurate, weighty and unbreakable, were mere gossamer strands. She was madly, helplessly, hopelessly in love with her master. And he, no less, rebellious, moody, angry, chastising himself for his weakness, was infatuated with his lovely slave.

  The fellow struggled to stay on the bulging, shifting wineskin, and then slipped off. He had actually done quite well. Nearly had he won the wine.

  There was applause about the small circle.

  I heard a fellow advertising the booth of a thought reader. This reader probably read coins. One, presumably without the knowledge of the reader or a confederate, selects one coin from several on a tray or platter, usually tarsk bits, and then, holding it tightly in his hand, concentrates on the coin. Then, after the coin has been replaced on the tray or platter, the thought reader turns about and, more often than not, far more than the probabilities would suggest, locates the coin. One then loses one's tarsk bit. If the reader selects the wrong coin, one receives all the tarsk bits on the tray or platter, usually several. I assumed there must be some sort of trick to this, though I did not know what it was. Goreans, on the other hand, often accept, rather uncritically, in my mind, that the reader can actually read thoughts, or usually read them. They reason that if one fellow can see farther than another, and such, why can't someone, similarly, be able to "see" thoughts. Similarly, less familiar with tricks, prestidigitation, illusions, and such, than an Earth audience, some Goreans believe in magic. I have met Goreans who really believed, for example, that a magician can make a girl vanish into thin air and then retrieve her from the same. They accept the evidence of their senses, so to speak. The taking of auspices, incidentally, is common on Gor before initiating campaigns, enterprises, and such. Many Goreans will worry about such things as the tracks of spiders and the flights of birds. Similarly, on Gor, as on Earth, there is a clientele, particularly in uncertain, troubled times, for those who claim to be able to read the future, to tell fortunes, and such.

  "Noble Sir!" called the owner of the wineskin. "What of you?"

  I regarded him, startled.

  "A tarsk bit a chance!" he invited me. "Think of the whole skin of wine for you and your friends!"

  A skin of wine might bring as much as four or five copper tarsks.

  "Very well," I said.

  There was some commendation from others about. "Good fellow," said more than one fellow.

  "Surely you do not intend to wear your sandals," said the owner of the wineskin.

  "Of course not," I said, slipping them off. I then rubbed my feet well in the dirt near the skin.

  "Let me help you up," said the fellow.

  "That will not be necessary," I said.

  "Here, let me help you," he said.

  "Very well," I said. I had not been able to get on the skin.

  "Are you ready?" asked the owner, steadying me.

  "—Yes," I said. I wished Lecchio, of the troupe of Boots Tarsk-Bit, were about. He might have managed this.

  "Ready?" asked the owner.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Time!" he cried, letting go of me.

  "How well you are doing!" he cried, at which point I slipped from the skin. I sat in the dirt, laughing. "How marvelously he did!" said a fellow. "Has he gotten on the skin yet?" asked another, a wag, it seems. "He has already fallen off," he was informed. "He did wonderfully," said another. "Yes," said another, "he must have been on the skin for at least two Ihn." I myself thought I might have managed a bit more than that. To be sure, on the skin, an Ihn seems like an Ehn. Before one becomes too critical in these matters, however, I recommend that one attempt the same feat. To be sure, some fellows do manage to stay on the skin and win the wine.

  "Next?" inquired the owner of the wineskin.

  I looked about, and picked up my sandals. I had scarcely retrieved them when I noticed a stillness about, and the men looking in a given direction. I followed their gaze. There, at the edge of the circle, emerged from the darkness, there was a large man, bearded, in a tunic and cloak. I took him as likely to be of the peasants. He looked about himself, but almost as though he saw nothing.

  "Would care to try your luck?" asked the owner of the wineskin. I was pleased that he had address
ed the fellow.

  The newcomer came forward slowly, deliberately, as though he might have come from a great distance.

  "One tries to stand upon the skin," said the owner. "It is a tarsk bit."

  The bearded man then stood before the owner of the wineskin, who seemed small before him. The bearded fellow said nothing. He looked at the owner of the wineskin. The owner of the wineskin trembled a little. Then the bearded man placed a tarsk bit in his hand.

  "One tries to stand on the skin," said the owner again, uncertainly.

  The large man looked at him.

  "Perhaps you will win," said the owner.

  "What are you doing?" cried the owner.

  No one moved to stop him, but the large man, opening his cloak, drew a knife from his belt sheath and slowly, deliberately, slit the skin open. Wine burst forth from the skin, onto the ankles of the large fellow, and, flowing about, seeking its paths, sank into the dirt. The dust was reddened. It was not unlike blood.

  The large fellow then sheathed his knife, and stood on the rent, emptied skin.

  "I have won," he said.

  "The skin is destroyed," said the owner. "The wine is lost."

  "But I have won," said the bearded man.

  The owner of the rent skin was silent.

  "Twenty men were with me," said the large, bearded man. "I alone survived."

  "He is of the peasant levies!" said a fellow.

  "Speak, speak!" cried men, anxiously.

  "The skin is rent," said the man. "The wine is gone."

  "Speak!" cried others.

  The fellow pulled his cloak away and put it over his arm.

  "He is wounded!" said a man. The left side of the fellow's tunic was matted with blood. The cloak had clung to it a bit, when he removed it.

  "Speak!" cried men.

  "I have won," said the man.

  "He is delirious," said a fellow.

  "No," I said.

  "I have won," said the man, dully.

  "Yes," I said. "You have stood upon the skin. You have won."

  "But the skin is gone, the wine is gone," said a fellow.

  "But he has won," I said.

  "What occurred in the west?" demanded a man.

  "Ar has lost," he said.

  Men looked at one another, stunned.

  "The banners of Cos incline toward the gates of Ar," said the man.

  "No!" cried a man.

  "Ar is defenseless," moaned a fellow.

  "Let the alarm bars sound," wept a man. "Let her seal her gates!"

  I had some concept of the forces of Cos. Too, I had some concept of the forces of Ar in the city, now mostly guardsmen. She could never withstand a concerted siege.

  "I have won," said the bearded man.

  "How have you won?" asked a man, angrily.

  "I have survived," he said.

  I looked at the rent skin and the reddened dust. Yes, I thought, he was the sort of man who would survive.

  Men now fled away from the circle. In Ihn, it seemed, the camp was in consternation.

  A slave girl fled by.

  Tents were being struck.

  Now, from within Ar, I could hear the sounding of alarm bars. There was lamentation in the camp from some. But most, peasants, seemed to be gathering together their goods.

  The large, bearded fellow was now sitting on the ground, the wet wineskin clutched to his breast, weeping.

  I stood there, for a time, holding my sandals.

  Men moved past me, pulling their carts and wagons. Some had slave girls chained to them. Some of these women, in their manacles, attached to the rear of the vehicles, thrusting and pushing, helped to hurry them ahead. I heard the bellowing of tharlarion being harnessed.

  "How far is Cos?" I asked the man.

  "Two, three days," he said.

  I gathered this would depend on Myron's decision as to the rate and number of marches. I did not think he would press his men. He was an excellent commander and, from what I had gathered, there need be no haste in the matter. He might even rest his men for a day or two. In any event, an excellent commander, he would presumably bring them fresh to the gates of Ar.

  I donned my sandals.

  Many of the fires in the camp had now been extinguished. It might be difficult finding my way back to the tent.

  "Are you all right?" I asked the bearded fellow.

  "Yes," he said.

  I looked to the walls of Ar. Here and there, on the walls, like shadows flickering against the tarn beacons, I could see the return of tarnsmen.

  I looked to the west. Out there, somewhere, were the forces of Cos, their appetites whetted by victory. Within a week, surely, they would be within sight of Ar, eager for war, zestful for loot. I listened to the alarm bars in the distance, from within the city. I wondered how well, tonight, would sleep her free women. Would they squirm and toss in fear in their silken sheets? I wondered if they better understood, this night, perhaps better than other nights, their dependence on men. Surely they knew in the depths of their lovely bellies that they, too, as much as the slaves in their kennels, were spoils.

  "Pray to the Priest-Kings! Pray to the Priest-Kings!" wept a man.

  I thrust him aside, moving through the press, the throngs, the carts and wagons, the tharlarion. In a few Ehn I had come to our tent.

  4

  Within Ar

  "Revile the Home Stone of Ar's Station while you may," said the guard to a tradesman. "We do not know what the future may hold."

  "No," said the tradesman, looking about. He knew not who might be in that crowd, nor what their sympathies might be. He did not enter between the velvet ropes, forming their corridor to the roped enclosure within which rested the stone.

  "I do not fear to do so, even now," said a brawny fellow of the caste of metal workers.

  "Steady," I said to Marcus, beside me.

  "Nor do I fear," said the brawny fellow, "the legions of Cos, nor her adherents or spies! I am of Ar!" He then strode between the ropes to the stone, which rested upon a plank, itself resting on two huge terra-cotta vats, of the sort into which slop pots in insulae are dumped. Such vats are usually removed once or twice a week, emptied in one carnarium or another, outside the walls, rinsed out and returned to the insula. Companies have been organized for this purpose. "Curses upon Ar's Station," he cried, "city faithless and without honor, suborned ally, taker of bribes, refuge of scoundrels, home of cowards, betrayer of the mother city! Down with Ar's Station. Curses upon her!" He then spat vigorously upon the stone.

  "Steady," I whispered to Marcus. "Steady."

  The fellow then, not looking about, exited between the velvet ropes on the other side.

  Only yesterday there had been lines, though smaller than when we had first come to Ar, to revile the stone. Today almost no one approached it. The enclosure was within sight of the Central Cylinder, on the Avenue of the Central Cylinder.

  I put my hand on Marcus' wrist, not permitting him to draw his sword. "Remember," I said. "They think that Ar's Station opened her gates to Cos."

  "Cursed lie!" said he.

  "Yes, indeed," I said, rather loudly, for I saw some fellows look about at Marcus, "it is a cursed lie for any to suggest that the men of Ar might lack courage. Surely they are among the bravest on all Gor!"

  "True, true," said more than one fellow, returning his attention to his own business.

  "Come away from here," I said to Marcus.

  Phoebe was not with us. We had stopped at one of the depots for fee carts on Wagon Street, in southeast Ar. There we had backed her into a slave locker, reached by a catwalk, on all fours, inserted the coin, a tarsk bit, turned and removed the key. It is a simple device, not unlike the slave boxes used in certain storage areas. Unlike the slave boxes they do not require the immediate services of an attendant. The lockers open outward, as opposed to the slave boxes, which open upward. The lockers, thus, like slave cages, may be tiered. The gate of the locker, like the lid of the slave box, is perfo
rated for the passage of air, usually, like the slave box, with a design in the form of a cursive 'Kef', the first letter of 'Kajira', the most common Gorean expression, among several, for a female slave. The usual, and almost universal, temporary holding arrangement is a simple slave ring, mounted in the wall. These are conveniently available in most public places. The slave is usually chained to them. Marcus had decided to keep Phoebe today in a box or locker, rather than at an open ring. "Down on all fours, crawl within, backward!" Marcus had ordered the slim beauty. She had obeyed, instantly. Gorean slave girls swiftly learn not to demur at the orders of masters. I recalled her face, looking up at Marcus. "Let this help you to keep in mind that you are a slave," said Marcus. "Yes, Master," she had said. He had then closed the door, turning the key, removing it, placing it in his pouch. I did not object to this incarceration of his beauteous slave as such things are excellent for their discipline. Also, it seemed to me, aside from the value of its effect of Phoebe, an excellent idea. If he were successful in his mad attempt to obtain the Home Stone of his city he would doubtless be a recognized wanted man. Some might recall that Phoebe was his slave, and thus attempt to trace him through her. In the locker she would not be as easily recognized, surely not as easily as if she were kneeling at a wall, braceleted to a ring. The keeping her in a box or locker seemed to me superior, too, incidentally, to renting a tenement room, even though these were now cheaper and more available than when I had been last in Ar, because of the new egress of refugees, now from Ar herself. We might be remembered by the proprietor or other tenants in such a place. Had we used such a room we could have left her there, chained to a slave ring. In such a room, assuming slaves are allowed in the building, there are usually two of these, one at the wall and one at the foot of a straw-filled pallet. The depot, incidentally, had been muchly crowded, though not with fee carts. Most of the wagons, coaches, fee carts, and such were gone. No longer were the schedules, within and outside of the city, being kept. Tharlarion, and such transportation, were now said to be worth their weight in gold. I had heard that certain rich men had exchanged as many as fifteen high slaves, choice "flowers" from their pleasure gardens, trained even to Curulean quality, for a single tharlarion and wagon. But I did not know, even then, how far they might get, what with the need of such conveyances, brigands on the road, advance scouts of Cos, and such. Some, I had heard, had been turned back even by guardsmen of Ar, outside the city. That seemed hard to understand. In any event, most of those in the city, surely the largest part, by far, of its population, had no practical way to leave the city, lest it be on foot. Even then they would have surely, most of them, nowhere to go, or stay. Who knew what dangers might lie outside the walls? Too, they could always be overtaken by tharlarion cavalry or Cosian tarnsmen. The citizenry of Ar, for the most part, was trapped in the city. Indeed, there were even rumors circulating that the gates of the city would soon be closed, and even sealed, reinforced against siege weapons. There was much talk, too, of course, about defending the city. Indeed, it was with this in mind, that I had come this morning to the city, to lend my sword, a modicum of mercenary iron, to her defense. On the other hand, this cause, I suspected, was doomed. It was not that I doubted that those of Ar, suitably rallied and led, might effect a stout and fierce resistance, but that I had some concept, as many did not, Marcus, for example, of the arithmetic of war. In any normalcy of combat, assuming the equivalence of the units, the comparability of weaponry, the competence of the commanders, and such, Ar would be doomed. The army of Cos was the largest ever brought to the field on Gor, and it was now, after the fall of Ar's Station, abetted by numerous reinforcements from the north. Furthermore, it had had the winter to restore its siege train, the original train burned in Torcadino, fired by Dietrich of Tarnburg, and, because of its recent success in the field, west of Ar, it could draw on thousands of square pasangs for its logistical support. Further, its lines of communication, from the palace at Telnus, in Cos, to the tent of Myron, the polemarkos, were swift and reliable. I doubted that Ar, even if rallied by a Marlenus of Ar, could hold out for more than a few weeks. And, once one added to the reckoning of these dismal tables the skewing factor of treachery in Ar, and that her high general, Seremides, of Tyros, was traitorous to his oaths, as I had learned at Holmesk, in the north, Ar, I was sure, was doomed.